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I went back to the motel in Ville Platte, showered, shaved, then drove back across the Atchafalaya Basin to Baton Rouge. It seemed a lot faster than when I had driven from Baton Rouge to Ville Platte, but maybe that was because I was looking forward to getting there. I am nothing if not goal oriented.
I checked into the Riverfront again and was nursing a Dixie beer in the lobby bar at six-thirty when Lucy Chenier walked in wearing a rose blazer over a clay-colored blouse and tight jeans. Two businessmen at a little round table watched her walk in. So did the bartender. She smiled when she saw me and her eyes seemed to fill the room. She offered her hand. "Did you satisfy your urge for local cuisine, or are you still feeling adventurous?"
I said, "Adventure is my middle name."
She smiled wider, and her teeth and eyes sparkled, but maybe that was just me. "Then you're in for a treat."
Lucy waited while I paid the bar bill, then we went out to her car. She was driving a light blue Lexus 400 two-door coupe. The sport model. It was clean and sleek and had been freshly washed. There was an AT amp;T car phone, and the small backseat was littered with CDs, mostly k. d. lang and Reba McEntire. She looked good behind the wheel, as if she and the car were comfortable together. "Nice," I said.
She flashed the laugh lines, pleased. Lucy Chenier drove cleanly and with authority, very much the way I imagined she practiced law or played tennis, and pretty soon we turned into a great warehouse of a building with streams of people going in and coming out. Ralph amp; Kacoo's. She said, "Let me warn you. The decor is kind of hokey, but the food is wonderful."
"No problem," I said. "I go for that Barnacle Bill look."
Ralph amp; Kacoo's made an airplane hangar look small. It was festooned with fishing nets and cork buoys and stuffed game fish and mutant crab shells the size of garbage can lids. There must have been seven hundred people in the place. A lot of families, but a great many couples, too. All it needed was Alan Hale in a yellow slicker greeting everyone with a hearty "Ahoy, matey!" I said, "Kind of?"
Lucy Chenier nodded. "We're big on hoke down here."
A young woman who looked like a college student seated us and asked if we'd care for a drink. I said, "Shall we order a bottle of wine?"
"Never with Cajun food." Lucy grinned, and now there was a glint of fun in her eyes. "You're going to think it's hokey again."
"What?"
She looked at the waitress. "Could we have two Cajun Bloody Marys, please?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Cajun Bloody Marys?"
"Don't laugh. They're made with cayenne and a hint of fish stock. You said you're adventurous." She turned back to the waitress. "And we'll have an appetizer of the alligator sausage."
The waitress went away.
I said, "First, it's dinner at Gilligan's Island, now it's alligator sausage. What could be next?"
Lucy looked at her menu. "The best is yet to come."
The waitress came back with Bloody Marys that were more brown than red, with a ring of lemon floating in them. I tasted. There was the hint of fish, and the flavors of Tabasco and pepper and cayenne were strong and tingly, and went well with the vodka.
Lucy said, "Well?"
"This is good. This is really very good."
Lucy smiled. "You see?"
The waitress returned with the alligator sausage and asked if we were ready to order. I tried the sausage. It could have been chicken or pork, but the texture was interesting.
Lucy said, "If you really want to taste Louisiana, I'd suggest any of the crab dishes, or the crawfish. The crab dishes tend to be fried; the crawfish boiled or made in a soup."
"Sounds good."
Lucy Chenier ordered the crawfish étouffée, and I ordered the crawfish platter. With the platter I would get a bowl of crawfish bisque, as well as boiled crawfish and fried crawfish tails. The fried tails were called Cajun popcorn. We finished the first Bloody Marys and ordered two more. The waitress brought our salads, and I watched Lucy eat as, in her office, I had watched her move. To watch her was a singular, enjoyable occupation. She said, "To be honest with you, when Jodi told me that she was bringing in an investigator from California, I tried to discourage it. I didn't think you'd be as effective as a local investigator."
"Reasonable."
She tipped her glass toward me. "Reasonable, but clearly misplaced. You're good."
I tried to sit straighter in the chair. "You're making me blush."
She sipped the Bloody Mary. She didn't seem too interested in the salad. "What did Mr. Rebenack have to say for himself?"
I went through it for her. I told her that Jimmie Ray Rebenack had approached at least two of the women I interviewed and presented himself as someone seeking to find a sister, and that when I questioned him about this, he denied it, and also denied approaching the women. I told her that I had taken the opportunity to enter his office, and that when I did I discovered what appeared to be Louisiana State adoption papers and a birth certificate for a girl child born to Pamela and Monroe Johnson on the same day as the day of Jodi Taylor's birth. When I said that part of it, Lucy Chenier put down her Bloody Mary and held up a hand. No longer smiling. "Let me stop you. You broke into this man's office?"
"Yes."
She shook her head. "Breaking and entering is a crime. I will not be a party to criminal behavior."
I said, "What office?"
She sighed, still not liking it.
I said, "The state papers were standard stuff, showing that the Johnsons remanded all rights and claims on the child to the state. Someone had written the Johnsons' address on back of the birth certificate. It could be coincidence, but if it is, it's a big one."
"Were the Taylors mentioned anywhere on the papers?
"There was a copy of Jodi's birth certificate. That's all."
"Do you think this man Rebenack is related to Jodi Taylor or to the Johnson family?"
"I have no way to know. He denied all knowledge, yet he had the file. He's interested in Jodi Taylor, and he's linked her to the Johnsons. He had Monroe Johnson's address, so he may have approached them, but I don't know that."
Lucy Chenier stared into midspace, thinking. Now that we were on the serious stuff, she seemed intent and focused and on the verge of a frown. Her court face, I thought. A mix of the tennis and the law. I had more of the Bloody Mary and watched her think. Watching her think was as rewarding as watching her move, but maybe that was just the vodka. My mouth tingled pleasantly from the spices, and I wondered if hers was tingling, too.
She said, "The documents you're describing are part of the files sealed by the state. The biological parents would've been given a copy, what you might call a receipt for the child, but there's no way Mr. Rebenack should have a copy."
"Only he has it." I wondered what it would be like to kiss someone with a tingling mouth.
She said, "Still, that document doesn't prove that Jodi Taylor is in fact the child given up by the Johnsons. We'll have to open the state files for that. We'll have to approach Edith Boudreaux to confirm that what you've found is correct. If her father is incapacitated and her mother is dead, then it falls to her to give the state permission to open the files. That's the only way to officially confirm that Jodi Taylor was born to Pamela Johnson."
"And that we'll do tomorrow."
She nodded. "Yes. I think it's best if we approach her at the boutique. We'll make contact there, on ground where she's comfortable, and ask to speak with her in private. That should be me, because I've done it before and because women are less threatened by other women."
"You mean, we don't just walk up and say, hey, babe, how'd ya like to meet your long lost sister?"
Lucy Chenier smiled, and had more of her drink. "Perhaps in California."
I said, "Is your mouth tingling?"
She looked at me.
"From the spices."
"Why, yes. It is."
I nodded. "Just wondering."
The waitress took the salad plates away and came back with the étouffée for Lucy and the crawfish platter for me. A bowl of bisque was in the center of my plate, surrounded by a mound of boiled crawfish on one side and the fried crawfish tails on the other. The fried tails looked like tiny shrimp, curled tight and lightly breaded. I forked up several and ate them. They were hot and tender and tasted in a way like sautéed baby langostinos. "Good."
Lucy said, "The bisque is like a soup that's been enriched with crawfish fat. The heads have been stuffed with a mixture of crawfish meat and bread crumbs and spices. You can pick it up, then use your spoon to lift out the stuffing."
"Okay." The bisque was a deep brown, and several stuffed crawfish shells bobbed in it. I did as she said and dug out the stuffing and tasted it. The stuffing tasted of thyme. "This is terrific. Would you like one?"
"Please."
I spooned out one of the stuffed shells and put it on her plate. She said, "Here. Try the étouffée."
The étouffée was a rich brown sauce chunky with diced green bell peppers and celery and crawfish tails over rice. She forked some onto one of the little bread plates, then passed it to me. I tasted it. These people have redefined the word yummy.
She said, "Does the étouffée you get in California taste like this?"
"Not even close."
Lucy Chenier picked up the stuffed shell I had given her and spooned out the filling. As she did, a brown drop of the gravy ran down along the heel of her hand toward her wrist. She turned up her hand without thinking about it and licked off the drip. I felt something swell in my chest and had to swallow and then had the rest of the Bloody Mary. I said, "Would you like another?"
Nod. Smile. "Maybe one more. I have to drive."
I flagged at the waitress and showed her two fingers. Two bags of ice and a cold shower, please. Lucy said, "You eat the boiled crawfish by breaking the tails out of the body, then pinching the tail so that the shell cracks and you can get out the meat." She took one of my crawfish and demonstrated. "You see?"
"Unh-hunh." Maybe if I concentrated on the food. The food could save me.
"Then you put the head in your mouth and suck it."
I blinked at her as she put the head in her mouth and sucked it. She smiled simply. "Gets out the juice."
I coughed and covered my mouth. I drank some water. Think about the food. The food. The waitress brought our drinks and I drank mine without stopping. Lucy looked concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I shook my head. "Not a thing."
She sipped her new drink and ate some more of her étouffée. I noticed that most of my food was gone and most of hers was still on her plate. I hope she didn't think me a glutton. "Are you from Baton Rouge?"
"That's right."
"Your accent is sorter than the others I hear."
She smiled. "I'm not the one with the accent, Mr. Cole."
I spread my hands. Busted.
"I went to LSU for prelaw, but I attended law school in Michigan. Living with Yankees can devastate your accent."
"And you returned home to practice."
"My boyfriend was here, working, and we wanted to be married. He was a lawyer, too. He still is."
"How about that."
"We were divorced four years ago."
"That happens." I tried not to beam.
"Yes, it does." It seemed as if she was going to say more, but then she went 'back to the étouffée. "Now tell me about you. Do you have a background in law enforcement?"
"Nope. I've been licensed for twelve years and, before that, I apprenticed with a man named George Fieder. George had about a million hours of experience and was maybe the best investigator who ever lived. Before that, I was in the army."
"College?"
"University of Southeast Asia. The work-study program."
She shook her head, smiling. "You look too young for Vietnam."
"I looked older then."
"Of course."
"May I ask you a personal question, Ms. Chenier?"
She nodded, chewing.
"Have you sought out your birth parents?"
"No." She shook her head, then used the back of her wrist to move her hair from her eyes. Fingers still sticky from the crawfish. "The vast majority of adopted children don't. There may be a minor curiosity from time to time, but your mom and dad are your mom and dad."
"The people who raise you."
"That's it. A long time ago a woman gave birth to me, and gave me over to the state because she felt it best for both of us. She now has her life, I have mine, and my birth father his. I can appreciate on an intellectual level that they birthed me, but emotionally, my folks are Jack and Ann Kyle. Jack helped me ace algebra and Ann drove me to the court every day after school to practice tennis. Do you see?"
"Sure. They're your family."
She smiled and nodded and ate more of the étouffée. "Just like yours."
"Yet you've devoted your career to this kind of work."
"Not really. Most of my practice is in the area of divorce and custody disputes. But I don't have to want to recover my birth parents to appreciate that need in others. All of us should have access to our medical histories. Because I feel the weight of that, and because I'm in a position to help those with the need, I do."
"You share a mutual experience with other adopted children and you feel a kinship. All brothers and sisters under the skin."
She seemed pleased. "That's exactly right." Amazing how a little vodka can dull the senses, isn't it? She put down her fork and crossed her arms on the table. "So, Mr. Adventure, tell me what you think of our Louisiana crawfish. Is it the most incredible thing you've ever eaten?"
"I ate dog when I was in Vietnam."
Lucy Chenier's smile vanished and she looked uncertain. "How… adventurous."
I shrugged and finished off the crawfish tails.
She said, "Arf."
I looked up.
Lucy Chenier's face was red and her mouth was a dimpled tight line. She opened her mouth and breathed deep and blinked to clear her eyes, "I'm sorry, but the idea of it." She covered her face with her napkin. "Was it a poodle?"
I put down my fork and folded my arms on the table. "Oh, I get it. Humor."
"I'm sorry. It's just so funny."
"Not to the dog."
Lucy laughed, then motioned to the waitress and said, "I really do have to be going."
"Would you like coffee?"
"I would, but I can't. I have another appointment with a very special gentleman."
I looked at her. "Oh."
"My son. He's eight."
"Ah."
The waitress brought us Handi Wipes. Lucy paid, and then we drove back to the hotel. I suggested that we go together to Edith Boudreaux's shop the next morning, but Lucy had two early meetings and thought it better if we met there. I told her that that would be fine. We rode in silence most of the way with an air of expectancy in the car that felt more hopeful than uncomfortable, as if the night held a kind of static charge waiting to be released.
When we stopped at the Ho-Jo's front entrance, it was almost ten.
She said, "Well."
"I had a very nice time tonight, Lucy. Thank you."
"Me, too."
We sat in the neon light another moment, looking at each other, and then I leaned across to kiss her. She put her hand on my chest and gently pushed, and I backed up. She looked uncomfortable. "You're a neat guy, and I had a good time with you, but we're working together. Do you see?"
"Sure." I swallowed and blinked, and then offered my hand. "Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed myself."
She took my hand, eyes never leaving mine. "Please don't take this wrong."
"Of course not." I tried to smile.
We shook, and then I got out of Lucy Chenier's car and watched her drive away.
The night was balmy and pleasant, and I walked along the levee and up the little hill and along the nighttime Baton Rouge streets, drunk not from the vodka but with the joyful awareness that tomorrow I would see her again.